


the search for fact, not truth

by ceserabeau



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Archaeology, Historical Inaccuracy, Indiana Jones Fusion, M/M, Why isn't all Arthur/Eames tagged as darling?, darling - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:17:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4720754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is wearing a fedora. Arthur wants to throw something at him.<br/>“Since when did you know Indiana Jones?” Ariadne asks.</p><p>In which Eames is a treasure hunter and Arthur is an archaeologist, but neither of them is Indiana Jones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the search for fact, not truth

There’s a package on Arthur’s desk when he gets back to the office after lunch. It’s neatly wrapped in brown paper, tied up with string and a tiny bow.

“Ariadne,” he calls through the open office door, “Did you see where this came from?”

Ariadne’s head appears around the frame, eyebrows raised curiously. “Where what came from?”

“This.” He holds up the package to show her. “It was on my desk.”

She frowns. “The mail hasn’t come yet,” she tells him.

Arthur looks the box over. There aren’t any postage marks, not even an address on it. “So you didn’t put this here?”

She shakes her head. “Maybe one of the other professors came in while you were out.”

“I locked the door.” Ariadne just shrugs at him, so Arthur picks up the box, shakes it. It offers him no clues so he passes it off to her. “Here, you open it.”

He busies himself with the paperwork on his desk, the open files and precariously stacked books. One of the maps for their next dig seems to be missing from its folder; there’s probably a copy somewhere but he hates misplacing things.

“Um,” Ariadne says suddenly, and Arthur glances up. She’s blushing, cheeks flushed as red as her scarf. She holds out the box to him. “I don’t think I was meant to see this.”

Arthur takes it from her – and nearly drops it. Inside is a penis. Or rather, a shrivelled up penis, brown and hard and disgusting, stood upright on a stand.  

“What the hell.”

He drops it to the desk with a thud. The penis quivers. There’s a little card tucked alongside it, his name scrawled across the front, and Arthur fishes it out, opens it carefully.

 _Darling_ , it says, _saw this and thought of you_.

There’s no signature but Arthur knows exactly who it’s from. Slowly, carefully, he crushes the card into nothing and throws it towards the trashcan. It tumbles to the floor by Ariadne’s feet. She leans down to pick it up.

“What does that mean?” she asks after she’s read it once, twice, a third time. “Why would it make someone think of you?”

Arthur drops down into his chair with a sigh and buries his face in his hands. “Fucking Eames.”

 

 

 

The box with the shrivelled penis sits on Arthur’s desk. He tries to focus on work, but he can’t keep his eyes from being drawn to it, the way it’s wrinkled like a prune and shivers whenever he knocks the desk too hard. In the end he gives up, grabs the latest stack of papers he has to grade and heads out.

“See if you can’t get someone in African Studies to take that thing,” he tells Ariadne as he passes. He sees her lazy salute before the door slams shut behind him.

There are several cafes on campus, but Arthur likes the one closest to his office. It’s far enough from the centre to be quiet, and he always knows people there, students from the archaeology programme or professors that work in his building. It has big roomy armchairs and the baristas know him well enough after five years to bring him drinks every hour and let him sit for as long as he likes.

He’s been there for barely ten minutes when the chair across from his creaks loudly as someone sits down. “Darling,” a familiar voice says, “What a _surprise_.”

Arthur glances up over his laptop. Eames grins back at him. He’s lost some weight since Arthur last saw him, but he’s still wearing that same battered leather jacket. He’s somehow managed to find a painfully ugly paisley shirt to fit his new shape; where he gets these things Arthur doesn’t know.

“Hardly,” he snaps. “I work here and you know it. What are _you_ doing here?”

Eames shrugs, still smiling. “I was in the neighbourhood.”

Arthur feels himself purse his lips. “Is that your excuse for breaking into my office?”

“I would never do such a thing,” Eames says haughtily. When Arthur snorts, Eames gives him a dry look.“Alright, fine, I did. But it was _so_ easy, Arthur, you really should get some better security. Mention it to the university, will you?”

“Or you could just not do it,” Arthur suggests. He takes a sip of his coffee. “What the hell was that thing about anyway?”

“You mean the penis?”

Eames says it so loudly that several heads whip around towards them. Arthur rolls his eyes.

“I know you don’t have an inside voice, Eames, but really.” He lowers his voice to a more acceptable level. “Of course I mean the penis.”

Eames rolls his eyes. “It’s from the Okoro tribe. Highly prized, I’ll have you know.”

“I’m well aware,” Arthur tells him. “But it should be in a _museum_. Or better yet, give it back to the Okoro. I don’t think parents want their children looking at things like that.”

“Fine, fine,” Eames says, tone resigned, “I’ll take it away. I can probably get a fair bit for it.”

Arthur knows he’s making a face, but he can’t help himself. “You’re _not_ putting it on the black market.”

“But you don’t want it.” Arthur glares; Eames just purses his lips, unimpressed. “If looks could kill… Alright, darling, you’ve convinced me. I’ll take it back to the Okoro.”

“You better.” Arthur points a finger at him. “If it shows up at auction somewhere…”

Eames grins. “You have my word.”

“That’s barely worth anything,” Arthur mutters.

 

 

 

The penis is still on his desk three days later.

“I thought you were getting rid of it,” Ariadne says when she comes in.

“I’m trying,” Arthur tells her. He watches as she sets herself up in the corner of the office, curled up in his armchair, a stack of papers in her lap. “What have you got there?

“Midterms.” She waves one at him and Arthur can see red pen streaked across the page. “Remind me not to teach lower div classes next year. All the freshman are idiots.”

Arthur laughs. “You were a freshman once.”

Ariadne pulls a face. “I was mature for my age,” she says loftily.

A loud knock on the door interrupts them. Shave and a haircut, and for a second Arthur thinks _please god let it be a student or a professor or a janitor, anyone but Eames_ , but his luck’s never been that good. The door opens without an invitation, and Eames’ head appears around it.

He’s wearing a fedora, an actual fucking _fedora_. Arthur wants to throw something at him.

“Since when did you know Indiana Jones?” Ariadne pipes up from the corner.

Eames steps into the room, peering into the corner. “Who on earth,” he says, halfway to leering, “Is this?”

“Ariadne,” Arthur tells him as Ariadne gives a little wave. “My partner.”

“Your _partner_?” Eames clasps his hands to his chest dramatically, eyes wide. “You wound me, Arthur. Did our romance mean nothing to you?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Are you talking about the time we fucked in Cambodia?”

“Yes,” Eames says dryly, “I’m talking about the time we fucked in Cambodia.”

Ariadne makes a choked noise, like she’s laughing at them. “So you _do_ have a love life.”

“Not with him.” Arthur watches as Eames wanders to the bookshelf, peering at his collection with interested. He shakes the box on his desk pointedly. “Come on, this is what you’re here for. Where did you even get it?”

“A dig in Angola,” Eames says over his shoulder. He runs his fingers along the books. “Very lax security. You’d have hated it. Absolute amateurs. They weren’t using any proper equipment.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “You could’ve showed them how to do it instead of stealing their finds.”

“Or you could’ve,” Eames says. He leans against the bookcase and fixes Arthur with a disapproving look. “You really should get out in the field more often.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. The reason he doesn’t go out into the field much anymore is because _someone_ keeps breaking into his digs and stealing his finds.

“Seventy percent of all archaeology is done in the library,” he says loftily.

“I can think of seventy other things to do in the library,” Eames says and waggles his eyebrows.

Ariadne snorts. “Don’t encourage him,” Arthur tells her. He looks back to Eames. “Take your stupid penis and get out of here.”

It’s Eames’ turn to snort, but he picks up the box from the desk. “I’ll see you soon, Arthur,” he says as he heads for the door.

“I hope not.”

Eames just winks at him. “I hear Peru is lovely this time of year,” he says.

Arthur pauses. His next dig isn’t exactly big news in the archaeology world, but of course Eames is aware of it. Of course he’s planning to gatecrash.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Eames smiles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He nods curtly to Ariadne. “Goodbye, _Arthur’s_ _partner_.”

Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Ariadne turns to look at Arthur, a bemused look on her face.

“What the hell was that about?” she asks.

Arthur just shrugs. “He’s a mystery to me.”

 

 

 

Eames is a lot of things, but he is not a mystery to Arthur. They’ve known each other for nearly ten years now, and in that time Arthur’s learnt plenty of things about Eames.

He knows that Eames is thirty-six, a Libra, English born and bred. He has a degree in history from Cambridge and a doctorate in archaeology from Harvard but would rather steal relics than dig them up. He favours a Glock, or an assault rifle if he can get one, but he’s also good with a knife if it comes down to it.

Arthur also knows that Eames can’t help himself, so he doesn’t even blink when Eames shows up in his hotel bar the day after he and Ariadne arrive in Lima for their latest dig.

“Are you stalking me?” Arthur asks as Eames slides onto the stool next to him.

Eames throws him an amused look. “You’re not that interesting,” he says. He glances towards Arthur’s glass. “What are you drinking?”

“Whiskey.”

Eames grins. “Fantastic,” he says, and plucks the glass from Arthur’s hand, downs it in one.

Arthur glares at him. “I was drinking that.”

“So sorry, let me buy you another one.” Eames signals to the bartender and soon enough they’ve both got another drink in hand. Eames swirls his around in the glass. “You know, this reminds me of Cambodia.”

Arthur flinches before he remembers himself. “This is nothing like Cambodia,” he says coldly, and sips his whiskey when Eames gives him a sharp look.

“No,” he says, “I suppose not.”

Somewhere in the room there’s a crashing sound, a glass breaking on the floor. Eames’ eyes jerk away and finally Arthur can breathe again. He focuses on the slowly disappearing liquid in his glass, on the bartender with her steady hands; anything but Eames.

Eventually Eames turns back to him though, and leans to prop his arm on the bar. If he notices how Arthur’s feeling, he doesn’t mention it. “So,” he says instead, “Tell me what you’re working on.”

“You already know.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Eames smile. “But I like to hear you talk about it.” He props his chin on his hand. “Come on, wax poetic for me. I know you want to.”

So Arthur does. He tells Eames about the temple and what he hopes to find there, the promise of a greater understanding of the Incas and the artefacts that go along with it. He tells him about Ariadne, excited to enter her first dig as an archaeologist and not a student, and all the things he hopes to teach her up there on the mountain.

When he finally trails off into silence, Eames is grinning at him, eyes bright. Arthur is suddenly aware how close they are, Eames’ body tilting towards his, knees tucked together like a matching pair. It shoots a wave of heat down his spine.

“Always so passionate,” Eames is saying, and his tone is soft, earnest. His fingers press lightly against the back of Arthur’s hand where it’s wrapped around his glass. “Let me buy you another one, yeah?”

Arthur puts up a hand to ward off the bartender that Eames has beckoned. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

Eames doesn’t quite leer but it’s a close thing. “Would you let me?”

“Never.” Arthur stands, careful to put as much distance between them as he can. He nods curtly. “I have an early start. Goodnight.”

He steps away, and already another person is sliding in to take his place. He expects Eames to turn away but his eyes track Arthur through the crowd, a heavy weight on his back. He wonders if Eames will come after him, if he’ll appear by Arthur’s side at the elevators or knock on his door late at night; but for once he doesn’t follow.

 

 

 

In Cambodia, Arthur was a lowly grad student working on a temple restoration at Angkor Wat, and Eames was a tourist who hit on him at a bar in town.

He took Arthur to watch cockfighting in a shack by the river. Arthur’s shirt was soaked through with sweat, and the crowd made him feel twitchy and uncomfortable. Eames had used it as an excuse to press in close, a wall of muscle against Arthur’s back, and his fingers had grazed the inside of Arthur’s wrist like a promise.

“Animals,” he’d murmured in Arthur’s ear as blood sprayed across the sand and the crowd roared around them. “They’re all desperate for some action.”

“And what action are you interested in?” Arthur had asked over his shoulder, tilting his head back to catch Eames’ eye.

Eames’ fingers had dug into his skin sharply. “Don’t be coy, darling,” he’d said. “You know exactly what I’m interested in.”

They’d fucked in Arthur’s hotel room, the bed banging against the wall and the neighbours banging back, yelling at them when they didn’t stop. Eames had bitten a bruise into his neck, high up where the collar of his shirt couldn’t hide it, and Arthur came over himself with a startled groan. They fell asleep curled together, with Eames’ head against Arthur’s shoulder, his fingers resting over Arthur’s heart.

In the morning, Eames was gone and so was Arthur’s notebook, and when he got to the dig site later two of the giant stone effigies were missing and half the bas-reliefs they’d carefully dug out from under the tree roots.

Arthur had stood in the arching doorway of the temple with his fingers pressed to the mark on his neck and felt like a fool.

 

 

 

Pachacamac is the way Arthur remembers, pale stone that glints in the sunlight, steps reaching endlessly up the mountain. It’s not a big project, just exploring a newly discovered offshoot of the temple revealed by an earthquake. Arthur only got tapped for it because he’s been there before, but it’s Ariadne’s first time in South America and the smile she flashes him when they pull up is blinding.

In the dusty parking lot, there’s a big tent set up to shield all their gear from the sun. Inside, Arthur can see their site manager, Felipe, with his team of big, bulky Peruvians and a blonde head that sticks out amongst the dark.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Eames calls as they approach, an all-too-familiar smirk on his face. He salutes them with the cup in his hand. “Want some coffee? Felipe just brewed it up.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Arthur snaps. “Can’t you leave me alone for five minutes?”

Eames is up and over to them in a flash. “But then I’d miss your face, darling,” he says, reaching up to brush his fingers along the curve of Arthur’s cheek. “I can’t let your partner hog you, can I?”

Next to him, Ariadne rolls her eyes, but Arthur can see the smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. “Indy.”

Eames snorts, but he steps up to shake Ariadne’s hand. “A little birdy told me this is your first dig. Are you excited?”

“Of course.” Ariadne jerks her head towards Arthur. “He is too.”

“ _Really_?” Eames turns to stare at Arthur in surprise.  “I didn’t know he had it in him.”

“Oh yeah,” Ariadne says. “You should’ve seen him when we heard about it. Practically giddy.”

Eames’ eyebrows shoot up to his hairlines. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?”

“Ariadne, get away from him,” Arthur snaps. “Go see what Felipe’s found, will you?”

Ariadne glares at him, but she goes, disappearing towards the tent where Felipe and his team are all staring at them with interest. When Arthur looks back at Eames, he’s practically pouting.

“I’m not trying to steal her virtue,” he says sullenly.

“No,” Arthur says coldly, “Just our artefacts.”

Eames rolls his eyes. “It was one time.”

“Actually it’s been four times,” Arthur snaps. “There isn’t going to be a fifth.”

“Why not?” Eames actually sounds put out by it, as if stealing Arthur’s discoveries isn’t ruining his career.

“Well, for one thing,” Arthur tells him, “I’ve got a gun this time.”

Eames face lights up. “You _do_? Fantastic, darling, you must show me.”

Arthur knows he’s glaring but for some reason Eames is still smiling at him. “I will if you come anywhere near my site,” he tries.

If anything, Eames just looks even more excited. “I’m here right now,” he says. “So go on, let’s see it.”

“Fuck _off_ , Eames. Can’t you see I’m busy?

The look on Eames’ face couldn’t be described as anything but a leer. “Am I distracting you, Arthur?” he purrs.

“Yes,” Arthur growls. “I can’t focus on my work because I have to make sure you don’t steal anything.”

For a split second Eames looks – angry or disappointed maybe, Arthur can’t quite tell. Then is smoothes out into his most put-upon expression. “Fine,” he sighs, I’ll go. I wouldn’t want to stop you from doing all your important work.”

Arthur knows he’s mocking him, but the prospect of getting Eames away from potentially valuable treasures in the temple allows him to ignore it.

“Good,” he says, and makes shooing motions at him. “Go on then, get lost.”

Slowly Eames walks back to his car and gets in. He waves as he makes a circle of the parking lot before heading back down to the road. Arthur makes sure to watch until he’s out of sight.

 

 

 

Ariadne comes to a sudden stop in the darkness of the tunnel. “There’s meant to be a statue there,” she says.

Arthur looks at where she’s pointing. The alcove is empty, nothing but slimy moss glinting in the light from their torches.

“Are you sure?”

Ariadne nods, tapping the map the local historians drew when they first came down here. “It’s marked right here.”

Arthur peers over her shoulder. Sure enough there’s a shape right where they’re standing, a sketch of something that might be an animal. They’re definitely in the right place.

“Did someone already come down this way?” he asks.

But Ariadne shakes her head. “No, Felipe’s still trying to secure the east section.”

“Right,” Arthur says, and tries to tamp down on the sinking feeling in his gut. “We’ll come back to it.”

They continue on down the tunnel, silent except for the crunch of their footsteps in the dirt, heading deeper and deeper into the temple. But it isn’t long before Ariadne stops again, torch jerking towards the wall.

“And another one,” she mutters. She shines the light into the next alcove, down the tunnel to the next one. “There should be statues all along here.”

They work their way further down and sure enough, every alcove is empty, the entire tunnel stripped on both sides. Ten missing in total, and Arthur has a sudden image of Cobb’s face when he tells him that another dig has been compromised. If his job wasn’t in jeopardy before, it certainly is now.

“The chamber’s still full,” Ariadne tells him when she’s come back to where he’s waiting. “Whatever happened, it didn’t affect what’s in there.”

Arthur frowns. It’s a problem with sites like these, where discoveries are public knowledge and security is nonexistent: opportunistic locals can creep in at night, or the team can take whatever they want before documenting – or a professional thief can easily get in and out without anyone notices.

“Fuck,” Arthur says.  

“What?”

Ariadne hasn’t looked up from where she’s studying the map again, holding it up against the wall, the damp slowly seeping into the paper. The thin lines of ink are starting to blur at the edges.

“Eames.”

Her head twists around. “Where?” she asks.

“No, I mean – he took them.” Arthur smacks the torch into his hand, wishing it was Eames’ face. “I’m such an idiot.”

Ariadne cocks her head, considering. “He didn’t take have any bags with him yesterday.”

Arthur shrugs. “He probably did it last night. Or the night before.” Maybe even right before he bought Arthur a drink and smiled like everything was okay. “Fuck.”

“What do we do?”

“Go tell Felipe,” Arthur orders. “But don’t let the rest of them know, not yet.”

Ariadne nods, starts folding the map back up in neat squares. “What are you going to do?”

Arthur sighs and runs a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. “I’m going to find Eames,” he says.

He barely catches Ariadne’s quiet _good luck_ as he storms up the tunnel and back out into the light.

 

 

 

Eames is a creature of habit, so Arthur only has to visit two sketchy motels before he finds the one Eames is staying at. The neighbour’s curtains twitch when Arthur knocks on the door. It opens to Eames in jeans and a t-shirt, tattoos creeping along his arms and shoulders, visible under the thin fabric. He looks more resigned than surprised to see Arthur standing there.

Arthur pushes past into the room. “How long have you been in Lima?” he demands.

“Of course, Arthur,” Eames says as he closes the door, “Come on in.”

Arthur tears his eyes away from the horrific neon blue of the bedspread and turns on him. “How _long_ , Eames?”

Eames’ mouth twists like he wants to lie, but eventually he just says, “Nearly three weeks.”

Three and a half weeks ago Eames was in Arthur’s office leaving that stupid penis, and apparently going through his files for information on this site. He must’ve come straight here and spirited the statues away before the site had even been secured.

“And when did you go into the temple?”

Eames shrugs. “Long before you got here.”

“Jesus,” Arthur hisses. He runs a hand through his hair.

“Oh, come on.” Eames has moved to the bed now, sinking down onto the edge. He spreads his hands wide. “No harm, no foul. As far as anyone needs to know, the pieces never existed.”

Arthur can feel himself grinding his teeth. “When the locals mapped it,” he grits out, “They marked them down.”

Eames rolls his eyes. “Then tell them they got it wrong.”

Arthur throws his hands up, exasperated. “Why do you always do this?”

“Darling –”

Anger flares in the pit of Arthur’s stomach. “Don’t _darling_ me,” he snaps. “I’m sick of it. You’ve ruined almost every dig I’ve been to. Do you know how much it damages my credibility, my _reputation_ when pieces go missing from under my nose?” He’s aware he’s shouting now, but he can’t stop himself. “I nearly lost my tenure after that stunt you pulled in Siberia.”

Eames frowns. “It was just a mammoth. I didn’t think they’d take it that seriously.”

“No, you didn’t think at all! You never do. All you care about is your big _payday_.” The anger spikes again, and Arthur takes a step forward, feeling his hands clench at his sides. “You’re a greedy son of a bitch who’s too selfish to think about anyone but yourself.”

“Arthur,” Eames says, then stops. His face cycles through emotions before it settles into something thoughtful. “Is this about Cambodia?”

Arthur wants to punch him. “Of course it’s about fucking Cambodia. And Madagascar and France and Egypt and everywhere else you’ve showed up and –”

Eames is holding his hands up, almost protectively. “Alright, Arthur, I get it,” he says, and suddenly Arthur is aware that he’s looming over Eames, hands clenched in tight fists at his sides. He takes a deep breath and when he exhales, it shakes through his teeth.

“I really don’t think you do,” he says.

Eames makes a strange sound. His mouth opens, closes, and when he looks at Arthur his eyes are unreadable. “My flight’s tomorrow,” he says eventually. “I’ll be out of your hair.”

“And will my statues be going with you?” Arthur asks.

Eames gives him a weak smile. “Will you shoot me if I say yes?”

“I left my gun at the site.”

“What a shame,” Eames says, but it lacks its usual bite. “Would it help if I said I was sorry?”

“No,” Arthur snaps. Then, softer: “You wouldn’t mean it.”

“And if I did?”

Arthur glances over at him, takes in the slump of his shoulders, the bags under his eyes. He looks tired, almost pathetic, but Arthur has known him long enough to know that almost everything about Eames is a carefully constructed disguise. No doubt this is yet another part of his façade.

“I wouldn’t believe you,” he says.

Eames nods like he didn’t expect anything different. “I can understand that,” he says. His voice is quiet, but not calm. “You should get going. Early start and all that.”

Arthur blinks, surprised: he didn’t think Eames would let it go that easily. He scrutinises him but Eames has already turned away, bending over to untie his shoes, leaving Arthur to stare at the bend of his spine and the flash of skin where his shirt rides up.

It’s so blindingly intimate that for a second he wants to say _see you soon_ , or maybe _I’ll call you_ , like this is something they do regularly, but instead he just says, “I’ll call the cops if you come back to the dig,” and leaves.

Outside it’s still warm, the sun just gone past the horizon. He’s almost at his car when a voice calls his name, and when he turns back Eames is in the doorway, barefoot, backlit by the light in his room. His face is shadowed and it makes him look like he’s sad, lost.

He doesn’t say anything, just raises a hand as Arthur gets in and starts the engine. Arthur watches him as he goes, eyes on the figure in the doorway until Eames is nothing more than a speck in the rear-view.

 

 

 

A shrill ringing wakes him. Arthur reaches out blindly for his phone on the nightstand. “What?” he growls when he finally manages to answer.

“You’re never going to believe what happened,” Ariadne says.

Her voice is shrill, excited, but not slurred like she’s been drinking. Arthur rolls over to look at the clock: nearly four. What the hell.

“Ariadne, do you know what time it is?”

“Yes, of course. But listen – the statues reappeared.”

“What?”

“The missing statues.” In the background, someone else speaks, voice distorted by the line. “Felipe’s here. His guys at the site called him. Apparently they’re all there, lined up in the yard.”

“How,” Arthur starts, but then he thinks of Eames in the doorway of his room, his expression as he watched Arthur walk away. “Never mind. Tell Felipe to get them inside. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

When he hangs up, he notices the message waiting for him. It says _believe me yet?_

Arthur deletes it and goes back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry not sorry. Might be a second part but it might take a while.


End file.
